


kickback

by roysauce



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (he really misses his friends), (read: too busy trying to prevent a war to read common social cues), Background Relationships, But also, Byleth spams divine pulse like it's his job, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd Has a Crush, Dimitri is crushing on Byleth almost right away but make no mistake, Families of Choice, Feral Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Cindered Shadows DLC Spoilers, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route Spoilers, Fluff and Angst, In which Byleth is Dangerously Smart but also Dangerously Dense, M/M, Oblivious My Unit | Byleth, Soft Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, a lot of sad platonic pining on Byleth's part in early chapters, because you cannot have One without The Other, found famiy, i guess?, no beta we die like Glenn, probably going to be Black Eagles spoilers too at some point, this is going to be the world's slowest burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:33:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26487220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roysauce/pseuds/roysauce
Summary: Outnumbered and outclassed, Byleth suffers a crushing defeat during the final battle. In one last desperate attempt to turn back the clock and save the people he's grown to care so much about, Byleth ends up sending himself back to the very beginning. With knowledge of what could be weighing heavy on his mind, he sets out to course-correct events that have already long since been set into motion.[Blue Lion Route, to be merged with Golden Deer Route later on. Expect Spoilers for both. No Cindered Shadows story spoilers planned as of yet, but characters from the DLC will appear. Dimileth is the romantic ship, but I cannot emphasize enough how much this fic is also going to be an exploration of platonic/familial love, namely Byleth's friendship with Claude, his relationship with his father, and his adoration for his students. If you're here for a romantic love story only, this isn't going to be the fic for you.]
Relationships: Black Eagles Students & My Unit | Byleth, Blue Lions Students & My Unit | Byleth, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth, Golden Deer Students & My Unit | Byleth, Jeralt Reus Eisner & My Unit | Byleth, My Unit | Byleth & Claude von Riegan, My Unit | Byleth & Everyone, Timeskip!Claude & Byleth's Epic Bromance (Past)
Comments: 40
Kudos: 148





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> *slowly pokes head out of hole*
> 
> *gently sets down fic*
> 
> *ducks back into hiding*

Bernadetta is the first to fall.

Sweet, shy, nervous Bernadetta—she’d come to Byleth three weeks into the school year, shaking and stuttering as she’d asked to transfer classes. Byleth had said yes- he’d said yes, and he’d taken her amongst his beloved fawns as one of his own. They’d taken tea together every Tuesday afternoon, Byleth sitting outside, Bernadetta in her room; the door cracked open, their tea and snacks arranged neatly atop a silver tray that would double as a doorstop. A compromise, they’d called it. As the months passed, they’d moved gradually out of her room, first into the greenhouse, then the garden, slowly but surely working their way up to the more populated areas of the monastery.

She falls, not thirty minutes into the first day of the battle—her shrill, _terrified_ screams carrying across the battlefield as she’s ripped down from her horse by a mass of sick-dead-pale- _wrong_ soldiers. Byleth’s entire world seems to end at the sound- he doesn’t know what happens next, can’t see because that’s how grossly outnumbered they are, but he _feels_ it, deep in his chest, the moment she dies- the moment her strangled screams fall to silence.

 _No_.

Byleth reaches back, world going black around him as time fractures—splits to pieces to be re-assembled at his will.

This time, he sends Bernadetta northwest with Hilda and Lorenz, sandwiched between the two knights for fear of her being unseated again. Hilda rides up front, breaking through the line with that brute strength she’ll swear up and down she doesn’t have, leaving Bernadetta to dispatch those knocked off balance by her axe while Lorenz covers their flank, alternating between healing and offensive spells as-needed.

It doesn’t matter.

An arrow from across the field breaks through Flayn’s neck. Byleth doesn’t see it happen, but he hears Seteth’s agonized wail as his daughter’s body drops off her pegasus, cuts through the air like a stone to land in the purpled, muddied waters of the swampland below. Three more arrows come in quick succession, taking advantage of Seteth’s shocked state—one catches his shoulder, threads the needle to find a home in the seam between two plates of his armor. The next takes his thigh, travels cleanly to pierce his mount behind it, pinning the two of them together.

The last catches him just below the eye, punches straight through to the other side of his skull, killing him instantly.

Byleth remembers every breakfast he’s ever taken with the pair. Remembers countless hours spent fishing at the pier with Flayn beneath the moon when the idea of sleep was too daunting. Remembers playing chess with Seteth in his office between war meetings as his daughter took her tea in the corner, her father’s latest fable resting on her lap.

 _Absolutely not_.

The world around Byleth fractures, broken like so many mirrors.

Byleth orders Flayn onto Seteth’s wyvern and sends them south through the forest with Ignatz. Leoni rides ahead to act as a lure, attracting the attention of a demonic beast before falling back to the brush—the beast, mindless as it is, pursues her without a second thought. Leoni keeps it occupied, dancing deftly through the forest atop her mount with Ignatz jumping in where necessary to keep it from getting too close. Seteth and Flayn stick to the treetops, taking pot shots with arrows and spells alike until the beast is felled.

Still, it doesn’t matter.

Marianne, who’d safely been maintaining a medical post in the north, is overwhelmed during the night on the third day of the battle when a small battalion of Nemesis’ troops somehow manages to sneak past the front line. She fights tooth and nail to protect the wounded soldiers who’d fallen back under her care, backed by Raphael and Lysithea, but it’s no use. There are too many of them—too many milk-pale husks who don’t feel pain, willing to fight through injuries that would ground anyone else.

Raphael and Lysithea find Byleth the next morning, bloodied and exhausted and broken inside. Raphael is a mess of tears and half-sentences when he tries to relay the news and Lysithea- she won’t even look at him. He’d had to throw her over his shoulder and carry her away kicking and screaming and lashing spells at his back.

Byleth remembers early mornings with Marianne in the stables with Dorte—remembers Saturday afternoons in the cathedral, weeding through the advice box together and cleaning the statues of the saints every other week to the soft melody of Marianne’s humming. But, most of all, Byleth remembers Marianne coming to sit with him after his father had died. She’d brought him jasmine tea and cookies stamped with sugared flowers and sat with him in the cemetery for hours—a silent, comforting presence—even after the sun had gone down.

 _Byleth refuses_.

It takes a lot, going back so far, especially when Byleth doesn’t even know _how far back_ he actually needs to go. But the air around him cracks all the same as he wills himself back to the dawn of the previous morning.

He sets himself up at the medical post this time, calling Felix and Sylvain back from the front lines to hold it with him. Felix complains the whole way, grousing about being taken away from the action, but he’s been with Byleth long enough to trust his orders, to know that he doesn’t do anything without reason.

Still, it’s not enough to prevent tragedy.

Nemesis takes advantage of the trio’s absence on the front line, finally coming out of his hole to hammer against their forces with everything he has. Leaving the medical camp in Felix and Sylvain’s hands, Byleth rushes back to the front line in time to see Petra cut out of the sky with one mighty whip of Nemesis’ blade. Cyril goes into a rage, dropping from his wyvern to fight back the forces converging on his paramour’s broken form. She’s alive, but just barely- her spine is broken from the fall, and even with immediate access to the best healing magic in the land, she’d likely never walk right again, if at all. Claude tries to help his protégé, quelling the tide with arrow after arrow, but he only has so many.

By the time Byleth has cut a path to them, Petra’s long since stopped breathing, and the only thing keeping Cyril going is desperation and hate.

Byleth remembers that same boy not long ago, following after Petra with a spring in his step and a smile on his face. _Forever and ever,_ Byleth remembers overhearing the two of them promising each other in the practice yard the day before they’d been set to march on Nemesis’ forces. It had made him so boundlessly happy to witness the easy love blooming between the two of them- mayhaps even happier to hear Cyril speaking so brightly of the future without even stopping to first consider whether or not his precious Lady Rhea would even have a place in it.

_Byleth refuses. He refuses to let that love die._

Blood seems to pool in his brain as he forces the world into crystalized darkness. Every inch of him aches as he searches for a point to anchor himself to- his mind _pounds,_ relentless. It feels like his teeth are shattering, too, splintered to bloodied fragments in his gums as he feels the whiplash-tug of being dragged through time and space to someplace else.

Byleth doesn’t know how many more times he can do this.

He staggers back to reality several hours earlier, halfway through the journey to Marianne’s outpost with Sylvain and Felix and a small contingency of their troops. He sways blearily on his horse, exhausted beyond measure, and Sylvain reaches out in a haste to right him before he falls, “You okay, Professor?” He asks, brows creased in concern.

Byleth straightens himself on his mount and waves the young general’s worried hands away, “Fine,” he assures him as he pulls his horse out of formation, “You keep on towards Marianne’s with Felix and the troops- I need to get back to the front before Nemesis notices we’re gone.”

He makes it back in time to hold the line, to drive Nemesis back into his hole, but it’s only a temporary solution.

There are just too many.

Every time Byleth tries to split his forces, they get overwhelmed- but there’s no other choice. If they were to cluster, the only way they’d be able to push would be east, straight through the swamp- just where Nemesis wants them. With such a large group, it’d be impossible to stick to the dry parts of the land. Dozens, likely _hundreds_ of their troops would succumb to the toxins in the water before they’d make it even halfway across- and that’s not even accounting for enemy movements. They’d be blocked in on all sides within minutes of losing sight of the plains, and then-

Then it’d just be a waiting game.

***

The battle rages on for three more days.

Byleth has to call upon the power of the divine pulse a seemingly insurmountable number of times—Leoni’s body, bloodied and broken between the jaws of a demonic beast. Hilda, burnt alive within the confines of her armor. Felix, bisected by Goneril’s axe as he leaps to block a swing Sylvain hadn’t seen coming. Over and over, he watches his precious fawns fall—and each time, it takes that much more out of him.

Byleth doesn’t know who the last death is—is no longer in enough control of his mental faculties to be able to discern who is who beyond a basic understanding of friend and foe—but he knows that when they fall, everything in him seems to break. The world around him does more than just fracture- it _shatters_.

Only, this time, Byleth hasn’t the energy to catch the pieces.

***

“You absolute moron!”

Byleth’s head snaps up at the familiar reprimand, winces against the pain it causes- only he doesn’t care, can’t bring himself to, because-

“ _Sothis!”_ Byleth throws himself into motion, aching feet carrying him up the steps of the progenitor god’s throne. The goddess stiffens as he falls to his knees and gathers her in his arms, cradles the back of her head with one hand as he buries his face in her hair, “Sothis,” He’s tired. So, _so_ tired- but happier than he can recall feeling in weeks, “I’ve missed you so much.”

“I…” Sothis hesitates before relaxing into his embrace, eventually bringing her hands up to rest against his shoulder blades as she returns it, hesitant but firm, “I’ve missed you, as well.” Then she’s wrenching Byleth away from her and swatting him over the head. Byleth knows it isn’t real, that nothing here really is—that this is all just a figment of his mind’s eye; a space created by Sothis to act as their meeting place—but it hurts all the same, “What were you thinking?!”

Byleth grimaces- ducks his head, chastened, as he sits back on his heels.

“Just how many times must I impart upon you the value of your life?! Honestly, at this point, one would think you’re _trying_ to lose it!”

“I’m sorry.”

Sothis huffs, planting her hands on her hips, “No, you’re not.”

Byleth sighs, hands balling to fists over his thighs, “No, I’m not.” He lifts his head to peer up at his old friend, “They’re my children.” Byleth did not sire them, did not carry them to term or birth them—but make no mistake, they _are_ his, “What purpose do I serve, if not them?”

Something in the goddess’ face softens, at that. She exhales, long and wearied, and reaches forwards to cup Byleth’s face in her hands, rub her thumbs over his cheekbones, “Something greater.” She confides softly, “You wage a war against an ancient evil- there is no war without loss.”

Byleth pulls his face away, casting his gaze aside, “I cannot accept that.”

Sothis scoffs, drifting backwards to ease down onto her throne. She crosses her legs, props a haughty elbow on the armrest and flicks her fingers, “Figures.” She sighs- and she’s scowling at him, but she still sounds so endlessly _fond_ , “Selfish man.”

Byleth’s brows thread together as he frowns, the thought he’d initially overlooked forcing its way to the forefront of his mind, “You said we wouldn’t be able to talk anymore.” And he doesn’t pitch his words up at the end like he should, but Sothis knows his mind- knows the statement for the question that it is.

The goddess’ face goes pensive. She purses her lips, nods with a sense of gravity that is beyond Byleth’s level of understanding, “I did.”

“Then how. How are you here?”

Sothis stares him down with a gaze like cut glass, tone sharp and accusatory when she speaks, “I have no way of knowing for certain, but if I were to guess, it would have something to do with the fact that you’ve been continuously using divine pulses for the last week with little to no respite between them. Honestly! You did more than turn back the clock, you great oaf- you went and _broke it_ entirely!”

“And the pieces?”

“Mere powder, now.” Her already intense frown depends, “Time is something with a physical form, you realize? Pieces can be broken off, cherry-picked and rearranged as needed, but the pieces will never be completely whole again, will never be what they were. Each deconstruction and subsequent reconstruction is that much harder to achieve cleanly—the pieces of the puzzle can only be made so small before they’re no longer distinguishable from one another. Repeat an event too many times and you will soon find yourself standing amongst nothing but the shattered fragments of past failures.” She pins him with a Look- the face she adopts when she’s telling him things that he should already know, “There is a reason I never let you use more than a handful of pulses for any given event.”

It’s Byleth’s turn to glare now, as he stands from where he’d been kneeling to plant his hands on his waist, “So I should have done _nothing_ , just watched them all die? Were you in my shoes you’d have razed mountains to ensure their safety, drained the seas until nothing but beds of dust remained- and yet, you sit there atop your almighty throne, lecturing _me_ on _my_ willingness to persist?”

Sothis sighs, heavy and weary, as she leans back, bracing her elbows on the arms of her throne, hands pulling into fists over the crumbling stone. She tips her head back, eyes sliding shut, “I believe there is a saying, you humans have-” one eye peeks open to regard Byleth in tired, bitter amusement, “ _do as I say, not as I do?_ ”

Byleth crosses his arms over his chest, refutes, “They also say that those who cannot do, teach—and yet, here I am; a capable manager of both.”

Sothis opens her eyes, but, in a decidedly uncharacteristic move, remains silent. Merely sits there, observing him. After a long moment of silence, Byleth pushes his agitation down, directs his attentions back onto the matter at hand, “What happens now?” If the clock is truly broken, crushed to pieces and given over to the mercy of the wind, what is it that will become of them?

Sothis bows forwards at the waist, crossing her arms over her thighs as she presses her palms to her biceps, leaning her weight into her lap, “So long as you’re unconscious, I cannot know what has become of your physical form. I cannot tell you what the world will look like, when you awaken,” She straightens up, runs her palms down the length of her arms and lets them drop into her lap so that she might smooth over the fabric of her dress, “But I can tell you with relative certainty that the world you wake to will be entirely foreign to the one you left.”

Silence- Byleth’s vision blurs as a sudden bout of vertigo overtakes him. It’s been years since he’s experienced it, but he remembers the sensation vividly- remembers what it means.

He’s waking up.

Byleth staggers, stumbles forward and braces an arm on Sothis’ throne.

The progenitor god reaches out to grip his forearm, cranes her head to peer at him through her bangs, brows creased and frowning. She speaks- she must. Her mouth is moving, words emerging, but Byleth doesn’t hear them as his world blurs at the edges and his hearing narrows to the muted thrum of his pulse.

***

When Byleth wakes, it feels for all the world like breaching the surface of a waking sea after knowing nothing but the crushing darkness of its depths. He sucks in air like he’s starving for it, the sweet pull of oxygen a stark juxtaposition to his mottled vision, black and blurry at the edges. His body snaps up from its prone position seemingly against his will, one hand falling to brace against the straw-stuffed mattress below him.

Byleth looks down, slowly curls his fingers over the sheets as his breathing catches up to him.

He can’t recall the last time he slept in a bed—months, mayhaps more. The march to meet Nemesis had him sleeping on thin bedrolls and the occasional heaping of pelts, but even before that, back at Garreg Mach, Byleth hadn’t properly known his mattress in months. Most nights found him in the war room or Seteth’s office, hashing out strategies and overseeing troop movements. When he did sleep, it was slumped over his desk, minutes stolen during meetings when he could no longer keep his eyes open and, occasionally, seated upright in the armchair in the office that had once-upon-a-time belonged to his father, but had more recently become his own.

He had avoided falling into deep sleeps, when he could—too afraid of losing another five years to darkness.

Tentatively, Byleth calls out, voice pitched in a hush, “Sothis?”

Silence.

Byleth’s jaw tightens, and he knows better than to be disappointed—at least, he should. The last few days have been so emotionally draining, it’s a wonder he can still feel anything at all, let alone hope, but.

Somehow, he had, for a moment- just long enough for it to be dashed.

Shaking his head at his own naivety, Byleth evens out his breathing and forces his shoulders to relax—

Only for them to shoot up to meet his ears as the bedroom door is thrown open. On instinct, Byleth brings up a hand, lightning crackling at his fingertips, “C’mon, kid, I know you’ve been having a hard time sleeping lately, but-” The man in the doorway—familiar, _so familiar_ ; looking at him whole and breathing _hurts_ in the most wonderful way—freezes, mouth open around words that don’t quite make it past his tongue.

The electricity dancing between Byleth’s splayed fingers fizzles out lamely.

“…Father?” He breathes, the hope swelling in his chest so heavy that he feels as though he’s going to suffocate beneath it.

The man who wears his father’s face, who walks with his gait and speaks with his voice, slowly pulls his eyes away from Byleth’s outstretched hand, settling his gaze on Byleth’s face. His eyes twitch, pulling tight at the corners as his brows twitch together a fraction of a fraction and Byleth-

Byleth knows that look. It’s been years since he’s seen it, but he _knows_ that expression.

“Father!” Byleth is scrambling from the bed before he can think better of it, crossing the room in three long strides to bury his face in his father’s chest. The man’s whole body tenses, arms extended awkwardly to accommodate to Byleth’s unexpected embrace.

Face hidden in his father’s shirt, Byleth’s mind races.

He tries to think- to force himself to recall how far back he’s gone, when it was he’d stayed in this room, but he can’t remember. Byleth’s memory has always been spotty at best—something Sothis had once guiltily admitted was likely her fault—and while it had improved immensely following Sothis’ awakening (and even more-so after his and the goddess’ final coupling), everything from before that time is a blur. He remembers bits and pieces of events that had impacted him developmentally, but the more monotonous information is lost on him. He’s stayed in hundreds of inns over the course of his life- after a while, they all start to look the same.

“Captain Jeralt, sir!” One of Byleth’s father’s mercenaries tumbles through the door, out of breath, nearly barreling into his father’s back in his haste.

Byleth relinquishes his grip on his father and takes a quick step back. His scattered thoughts are cast aside at the intrusion, swept away under the threat that something might be _wrong_ , leaving Byleth to observe the situation from beneath his usual mask of cool indifference with a familiar sense of distanced calm.

“Sorry to interrupt, but your presence is needed!” The mercenary relays after he’s taken a moment to compose himself.

Byleth’s father frowns, his whole face creasing with the gesture, “What’s happened?”

“Students from The Officer’s Academy, sir-” The mercenary reports, back ramrod straight- but Byleth is no longer listening. Is already pacing back to his bed to sweep his cloak unto his shoulders, fasten his sword to his hip—so light, so small compared to the Sword of the Creator; doesn’t fill his hand the same—and collects his gauntlets.

He breezes past the pair, the effort it takes not to break into a sprint verging on painful, and ignores his father’s narrowed eyes on his back as he floats out of the room and down the splintered stairwell of the inn—utterly exhausted and yet somehow more awake than he’s felt in months.

***

The urge not to touch is tremendous.

Claud is so young, hair so spiky- face so _smooth_.

Byleth’s eyes lock onto him and for a moment he’s elated, chest welling with fondness—but then his old friend’s eyes find his and there’s just. There’s _nothing_. Claude smiles at him, but it’s distant and _wrong_. A mask of weaponized charisma that Byleth hasn’t been on the receiving end of in _years_.

It hits like a slap to the face.

Byleth tears his eyes away from the man who had once been his most trusted ally, uncomfortable under the calculating weight of his smile, and fixes his gaze on his father as the man comes to fill the doorway of the inn behind him.

He looks to Byleth with narrowed eyes, a question in his gaze.

When Byleth doesn’t answer, he pins him with a stare that says that they _will_ be having a conversation about this later and steps past him, closing the distance between himself and the trio of nobles in three long strides, Byleth falling into step behind him.

“What’s the meaning of this?” He asks, his voice a low, displeased rumble.

Dimitri steps forwards, every bit the regal young prince Byleth had once known—and it hurts, in a way, to look at him.

If Byleth had offered more of his time to the boy- had he allowed his attentions to stray beyond the loyalties of his chosen house… would the snarling beast he’d met on Gronder that day… would he have been able to reach him? Or, perhaps, could he have prevented such a creature from ever coming to exist in the first place?

The young man sweeps into a bow, cape fluttering gallantly with the movement, and Byleth casts his attention to Edelgard, so dainty and unsuspecting in her girlish lavender bows and pretty silk cravat.

He could strike her down right now- put his sword through her throat before she could so much as twitch in her own defense.

But, no… Dimitri and Claude would leap to the defensive immediately, and even if Byleth did nothing- made no attempt to attack them as well, his father wouldn’t stand for it. He would cut them down, nobility be damned, and then there would be three territory heirs dead, and for what?

At the end of it all, Nemesis will still rise—only, this time, there would be no chance at a united force to offer opposition.

_A united force…_

Had Edelgard, Byleth wonders, ever been in a place where she might have accepted a middle ground? She had been privy to Those Who Slither in the Dark- in the end, had even extended a hand to point the way. Had Byleth known of the secondary threat, before that day… would anything have been different?

No matter how Byleth had deployed his troops in those final weeks, it hadn’t been enough.

Win or lose, they hadn’t been expecting the war to continue past that day in Enbarr. They’d lost so many- burned through so many caches of supplies making that final push- in pursuit of something they’d thought was do or die. There’d hardly been anything left to throw at Nemesis, but…

‘ _You know better now_. _’_ Sothis’ voice swims through his head, unbidden- and it isn’t her, not really. Rather, it is the imaginary her- a tiny piece of Byleth shaped in her image, made to deliver advice in her name.

 _Yes,_ Byleth thinks.

He does.

***

Byleth doesn’t remember the skirmish with the bandits being particularly difficult last time, but this time, it’s almost laughably easy.

Byleth cuts across the field with deadly precision, mindful of the young house leaders’ strengths and weaknesses in a way he hadn’t been the first time. He doesn’t direct them verbally, because in this new timeline he hasn’t yet the authority to, but he commands the fight in other ways.

Dimitri, like before, favors a straight forward approach, charging ahead with a single minded sort of focus. His body moves in hard lines and brutal displays of strength, his spear angled down, down, _down_ as if intending to force his enemies into the earth.

Byleth keeps pace with the young prince so as to keep him from getting swarmed, slices weapons from hands and aims practiced jabs at weak spots before moving on to the next opponent, knowing Claude will pick off his scraps. Edelgard, meanwhile, takes up position by the edge of battle, jumping in occasionally to down those knocked out of the central mass and introducing the sharp end of her axe to any bandits who dare split off towards Claude.

It’s a dance, fast and bloody and sharp.

Once the battle is over and the bandit's leader has retreated—disappeared, more like; didn’t even stick around this time, just ran as soon as it became apparent just how outskilled his little troupe of thieves was—Byleth sheathes his blade and paces over to Dimitri, chest heaving in the center of the clearing.

Wordlessly, he pulls the prince’s half-splintered spear from his grasp and tosses it aside, pulling the boy’s forearm up to get a better look at the place where his sleeve had been sliced halfway off his arm. The cut is shallow enough, but it must hurt if the way Dimitri hisses through his teeth at Byleth’s touch is any indication.

Byleth pulls one of his gloves from his hand with his teeth, his other hand still gripping the prince’s arm, and reaches down to cast a healing spell, knitting the boy’s flesh back together. Once Byleth is satisfied with his work, he drops the boy’s arm and pulls his glove back on, then casts his eyes to the corpses littering the ground.

He finds what he’s looking for quickly enough; shoves the toe of one of his boots under the staff of a spear, dropped by one of the bandits, kicks it into the air and catches it. It isn’t a great weapon by any stretch of the imagination—the blade is dulled from lack of proper maintenance and it’s rusted in places—but it will be a suitable replacement for the prince’s old one until they return to the monastery.

Wordlessly, Byleth offers the spear to Dimitri.

The prince looks at him with big eyes, lost and confused tinted with an ever-constant brand of sadness, and Byleth remembers the man he becomes, feral and bloodthirsty but just as sad beneath it all.

“By!” His father’s voice carries, impatient, across the clearing.

 _Things will be different, this time,_ Byleth promises himself as he presses the spear into the prince’s baffled hands.

 _I’ll make sure of it_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Byleth: *flashbacks to Feral Dimitri crushing a man's skull with one hand, cleaving someone in half with Areadbhar, delivering a crazed speech about wanting to mount Edelgard's head on a pike*
> 
> Meanwhile, The Man In Question: *internal monologue comprised entirely of sexy saxophone music, confused screaming, and vivid fantasies of homoerotic premarital handholding*


	2. The Journey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Part 1 of a double update. Byleth's brain is running a hundred miles an hour right now so I figured breaking things up for easier digestion might be best.

Where last time, Byleth spent the journey to Garreg Mach in silent boredom, this time, Byleth is dissecting the timeline of the school year in his head. Picking out notable events, things he can change. Tomas and Jeritza are the most pressing issues—well, second to Edelgard, but Byleth still hasn’t a clue how to approach _that_ particular bag of worms—but he can’t get rid of them both so soon after arriving without raising eyebrows and drawing unwanted suspicion to himself.

Jeritza could be persuaded to switch sides, possibly. Byleth would never trust him completely, but he can understand him, can put himself in his mind. The man lives for the scarlet dance, nothing else; wandering from battle to battle in manic search of a challenge. If Byleth can prove himself a worthy opponent, offer the man a challenge greater than the one Edelgard has promised him, it shouldn’t be too difficult to turn his head and keep it there.

Tomas—or, rather, Solon—Byleth is less sure about.

He cannot be allowed to live, though, _that much_ Byleth knows beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Byleth would be inclined to poison, personally. Tomas, as everyone knows him, is an old man. Incapable of taking a step without heavily leaning on his cane and prone to quick exertion. Something silent would do just the trick. Hidden neatly away as a heart attack, something to simulate a quiet passing in his sleep, but—

Byleth might have killed his fair share of them, towards the end, but he doesn’t _know_ Agarthans. Not like that. He knows how much pressure it takes to break their bones and how long it takes to choke them out, knows how much blood they can lose before they drop from it and how much magic they can ward off before they’re susceptible to taking damage from it- but he doesn’t know them in _that_ particular sense. Isn’t keen enough in his knowledge of their immune system to know what types of poisons might work if any, let alone the correct dosage—enough to kill but not enough to be traceable—and hasn’t the luxury of working by trial and error. If he were to fail, Solon would know of the threat, would know that someone in Garreg Mach _knows_ \- or, at the very least, has reason to want him dead.

So, no, tempting as it is, Byleth refuses to risk it.

A blade, then; _old reliable_ , as it were.

Messier, though, with more than a little bit of forethought required. Byleth has mastered the art of killing without making a mess of himself, but what of the scene? What of the body? Timing? Witnesses? There are just too many factors, too many things that could go wrong.

This is so much more Claude’s purview than Byleth’s.

Byleth’s eyes shift to the young man in question, considering.

He will need help, in this new time. Independently inclined though he may be, if war has taught him anything, it is the benefit of allies. No matter how much he might want to handle this on his own, to sweep this all under the rug before anyone can even realize anything is wrong, so that nobody will ever know the world Byleth lived in to even be a possibility… Byleth isn’t so arrogant as to think he can do it on his own. He’ll need people he can trust, or at the very least, people he can _use_ , to get done certain jobs that would otherwise be more difficult for him to achieve alone.

His father is a given—Byleth will explain the circumstances as soon as there’s an opportunity to—but Claude, as precious a friend as he’d been in Byleth’s lost future…

Claude is a risk.

He’s smart yes, and Byleth had learned much of the more subtle side of warfare from him- but he is, ultimately, a selfish man. He holds his own ambitions above all others; no matter how much he might _care_ (and he doesn’t- not for Byleth, not in this new time. Not yet ~~if he even will at all~~.), he’s a master at separating himself from the sort of bias that might distract from his goals.

Byleth would love nothing more than to reach out to the boy that had become his best friend, to open himself up to his council, but.

If he’s being honest with himself, he isn’t certain that Claude would help him.

Not…

~~(Byleth’s brain screeches to a sudden halt, something dangerously like hope bubbling up in his chest.)~~

Not if confronted directly, at least.

No, Byleth will need to be smart. He’ll need to subtly attract Claude’s attention, appeal to the boy’s fervent interest in knowing the unknown and bait him into it, little by little. It will be a game to Claude, at first, as most all things tend to be to the young lord, but the more invested he becomes in Byleth’s obvious (to him, at least) machinations, the less humor he’ll find in it. The more he’ll seek to seriously understand. Byleth will tip the scales, then, either by cutting the boy out of the flow of information he’ll be feeding him under the guise of sloppiness (or otherwise cleverness, on Claude’s part), or by upping the stakes enough that Claude will be unable to resist cornering him for a more earnest discussion, no longer satisfied by scraps.

Yes, that could work.

Claude will probably not even be angry at the deception, Byleth thinks. If nothing else, he’ll understand the need for secrecy, will respect Byleth’s manipulation because it is not dissimilar to what he would do in such a position. Might even be proud upon finding that every dirty psychological game Byleth knows he learned from him.

Byleth nods once to himself, pleased. Yes, he’s certain that will work.

Next—and much more of an unknown—is Dimitri.

Dimitri, the boy who will become a man lost to the madness of revenge should his path continue uninterrupted.

It would be highly beneficial, Byleth thinks, to have him as an ally. Well, more frankly put, to have the _Kingdom_ as an ally. But, realistically, Byleth isn’t sure that he should lean too heavily on the idea of having his support. If Felix’s griping is to be believed, even as a student Dimitri was unstable—though, to what degree, Byleth has no idea. If he is to place his trust in the young Prince, it will need to be a cautious thing. He will do his best to guide the boy, to steer him from time’s intended path, but he cannot reveal his cards. Not until he is certain beyond all doubt of Dimitri’s allegiance.

“Copper for your thoughts?”

Idly, Byleth casts his gaze aside to where Claude has strayed from the other lords to wander beside him, hands clasped high on the back of his neck. Byleth looks at him for a long moment, not so much considering his words as waiting long enough to give the young man the impression that he is.

“Worth far more than that, I’m afraid.” Byleth says offhandedly, adjusting his pace to leave Claude—and, by extension, Edelgard and Dimitri—behind and join his father and their mercenaries.

At his retreating figure, he hears Claude laugh.

Byleth, knowing full well what that particular laugh means, smirks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Byleth: *casually and methodically planning murder with all the moral hesitation of somebody deciding what they want for breakfast, which is to say none*
> 
> Also Byleth: Oh, yo, what if I can't get Claude to like me again :(


	3. A Much Needed Conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Part 2 of a double update. Byleth's mind is running a hundred miles an hour right now so I figured breaking things up for easier digestion might be best.
> 
> Things to note:
> 
> \- I've futzed around with the timeline after the timeskip. Instead of the entire post-timeskip period taking place over the course of several months, I have it taking place over the course of three years, taking into account travel time, recovery periods between battles, and the fact that, historically, battles have been known to last anywhere from an afternoon to several days to a week or more. It just seemed more realistic to me to spread things out.
> 
> \- I'm playing around a bit more with the dynamic between Jeralt and Byleth. I don't have the link for it, but I remember reading a super interesting post on tumblr when the game first dropped about how the reason you lose affinity with Jeralt at seemingly inconsequential things is because he's constantly doubting whether or not Byleth even cares about him, and that it's not until Garreg Mach and Byleth's full-range of emotions "waking up" that Jeralt begins to actually /get to know/ Byleth. (Which makes me, who went into the game 100% blind, feel very bad about saying "this man is a stranger to me" on my first playthrough when asked by Alois what our relation was, because anime logic - matching hair and eyes - said he wasn't my dad and I didn't think this random jaded looking guy would appreciate me claiming him as my father.)
> 
> \- I know in-game Silence works a lot differently and Byleth never actually learns it, but I didn't want to break the flow of the scene to have them move somewhere where Byleth would feel comfortable speaking so this was my solution. In my mind, for the sake of this fic, Silence is more like a magic bubble. Much like Vegas, what happens in the bubble stays in the bubble (be it sound or spells). When used in battle, it doesn't so much prevent an opponent from casting as it prevents whatever they /do/ cast from leaving the bubble, thus rendering whatever spell they might use while under Silence useless and/or potentially harmful to themselves.
> 
> Rambling out of the way, thank you all for being patient with me with this fic! Time travel fics require a lot of forethought (which is one of my biggest weaknesses as a writer) so I really want to take my time and get things right.
> 
> ~~P.S. If at any point I spell Jeralt as Geralt, be it in this chapter or the future, please let me know so I can fix it. I've been re-reading The Witcher books after the recent news about season 2 of the show and caught myself inwardly pronouncing Jeralt's name as Geralt several times~~

If Byleth was uncomfortable with Rhea’s attention the first time around, he’s downright disturbed by it now. Her eyes catch on his hair the moment she sees him—his hair, that he doesn’t even realize until that moment is still it’s usual creamy shade of mint rather than the dull blue-green he’d sported before fusing with Sothis—and she smiles at him, bright and present, in a way she hadn’t the first time.

When they meet her in the audience chamber, she’s still sporting the same saccharine expression and Seteth is glaring daggers into his forehead.

 _‘Who are you?’_ Byleth can practically hear the man demanding, ‘ _Why have you come here? What do you want?’_

It might be amusing if it didn’t hurt so much; seeing the man who’d once gripped his shoulders and called him family regarding him with such cold distaste—caustic bordering on revulsion, venom and affront dripping from his every word.

After they leave the audience chamber, Byleth’s father pulls him into the Knight Captain’s office, closes the door behind him, plants himself in front of it and crosse his arms over his chest.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to; Byleth can read the accusation in his eyes.

Byleth doesn’t know where to start—says as much.

“Start with your hair,” His father says, impatient, “Start with the fact that yesterday you couldn’t tell Reason from Faith and today you’re performing both schools of magic with the ease of a specialist. Start with-” His father pauses, glances off for a moment then back to him, visibly concerned, but insistent on dressing it up as agitation, “Start with why you reacted like you did to me this morning. Why you seemed to know what was happening before Abram could get six words into his report.”

That’s… a lot to start with, Byleth thinks.

‘ _My hair was bleached green when I fused with the Goddess, Sothis, who’s been living in my head since I was a child. I studied Reason after learning the hard way that sometimes physical weapons aren’t enough, had Marianne and Mercedes and every other healer I could get my hands on teach me Faith after you died in my arms, bleeding from a festering wound that I hadn’t the first idea how to treat. I reacted as I did for that same reason- because you died, you were_ dead _, have been for years and I’d begun to forget the sound of your voice. I knew because I’ve been through this all before, because the Goddess in my head taught me how to turn back the clock, except I’m greedy and unyielding so I broke it instead.’_

Byleth has never been one to pull punches—be they words or fists—but he feels that this particular topic, at least, needs a bit more of a lead-in than that _._

What that lead-in might be, Byleth has no idea.

(Not to mention… with Solon skulking around, who knows which walls have ears.

Behind his back, he casts Silence, waits the moment it takes to envelop the room, locking everything in place.)

He opts for starting at the beginning.

“My mother’s name was Sitri.” Byleth says, watches his father’s eyes twitch wide, the way his stance grows stiff, “She was a nun here- died giving birth to me. You faked my death and stole me away, even though my stillness scared you.” A pause, the silence damning, “You didn’t love me- couldn’t, no matter how hard you tried. Wouldn’t be able to for many years.”

That’s what had hurt the most, when his father had died; reading those words in his journal. Page after page of how uneasy Byleth had made his father, dozens of paragraphs describing the deep feeling of _wrong_ that would manifest in his gut whenever Byleth would look at him with his ‘ _empty eyes_ ,’ speak to him with his ‘ _voice devoid of all human emotion_.’ The years of guilt that he would endure, all the sleepless nights spent wondering what was wrong with him, that he couldn’t bring himself to care for his own son.

For what had felt like an eternity, Byleth had been unable to even grieve properly; too hurt and heartbroken by the revelation that the man he’d adored for as long as he could remember hadn’t seemed to know him at all. That even after his father had eventually come to love him—vividly, madly, as fervently as only a parent could—he still hadn’t had any inkling as to whether or not that love was returned, was too damaged by guilt and uncertainty to dare assume. At the realization that his father had _died_ not knowing.

“Byleth, I-” His father begins, voice thick, eyes straying. They return to Byleth, then, brows furrowing. He’s hurt, Byleth sees now. Agonized at the idea that Byleth knows there was ever a time when he didn’t have his father’s love, “Where did you…?”

“You’re journal.” Byleth says, frowning- then, as he realizes that way lies only misunderstanding, “You gave it to me- _will give it to me_ \- in another life. Another time.”

He knows he’s not making sense, not being as clear as he should be, but how _could he be?_

How does one ever manage to relay any sort of meaningful information without having to sacrifice tact for directness? Byleth has gotten better at speaking since his time at Garreg Mach, at articulating his thoughts—because how else was he to teach? ( ~~Poorly. Byleth remembers his first few lessons in agonizing clarity. Long stretches of blank stares and awkward silences, too many eyes looking at him for answers he didn’t have.~~ )—but the emotional side of such communication is still largely difficult for him.

Scrambling now, under the realization that even though he’d known they needed to have this conversation he really hadn’t considered the emotional ramifications of _having this conversation_ , Byleth feebly adds, “You died,” as if that could possibly clear anything up at all.

“I… died?” His father his eyeing him carefully, now, looking at him with an expression Byleth’s until now only ever seen on Seteth; like he's three seconds from declaring Byleth delirious with fever and sending him off to Manuela for treatment and never letting him out of bed for fear of him breaking.

(Byleth comes to the sudden realization that it is incredibly likely that he is visually distressed right now- which, while not exactly new to him, is something _incredibly new_ to his father, who up until this morning wasn’t entirely sure that Byleth even _had_ emotions, let alone was capable of expressing them.)

“So…” Byleth’s father shakes his head, reasoning with himself, “So you had a bad dream? Byleth-”

“It wasn’t a _dream_ ,” Byleth insists, “If it was a dream, how could I have known? The things I know about my mother, about _you?_ How could I have known who was outside without listening to Abram’s report? How could I have known who Alois was before he’d crashed into the clearing? How could I know Seteth and Rhea and-” Byleth blinks, remembers the member of the family who’d been absent, “Seteth has a daughter, Flayn. She’s his daughter, but he and everybody else will introduce her as his little sister, because nobody but she and him and Rhea know the truth. How could I know that, Father, from a dream?” Byleth raises a brow, “Unless you’re willing to concede that I’m prophetic, now?”

Byleth steps towards his father, presses a palm to his chest and searches his face because he _needs_ his father to believe him- hadn’t even considered what he might do if he didn’t, “I know because I lived it. I know because as far as my memories are concerned, nine years ago I was appointed as the professor of the Golden Deer. I went through an entire year of teaching them, getting to know them. Every new skill I’ve acquired since then has been to protect them, to help them hone their own. I know because you died and the world was plunged into _war_ —”

Byleth steps back with a sharp breath, turning on his heels to pace, listing the next events on his fingers, like that somehow makes his manic claims more valid, “Dimitri lost his mind, Edelgard turned her blade to the heavens- Rhea went missing and I got thrown off a cliff and Claude was left picking up the pieces for the five years it would take for me to come back from what I’m pretty sure looking back was the literal _dead_.

“I know because I woke up downstream from Garreg Mach three years ago, reunited with Claude, was appointed head of an army _and the Church_ and have been fighting tooth and nail ever since.” Byleth shakes his head, takes a breath and a moment to compose himself because this is not the time to get hysterical.

Suddenly, he wishes he’d gone with his first draft of this speech. It had been a lot more matter-o-fact, a lot less _raving lunatic_.

Groaning, Byleth scrubs his hands over his face and readies himself for Divine Pulse.

As if realizing that Byleth has given up on the conversation, as if he knows that Byleth’s about to bail—though he probably imagines him walking out the door, not zapping himself back in time—his father says, “Wait- By, just-” At some point his father moved from the door to sit against his desk. He’s got one hand pinching the incline of his nose, his eyes squeezed shut, the other hand held out in a placating gesture, “Wait.”

Tired and not seeing any hard him in it, Byleth waits. Watches his father for a long handful of minutes as he stands there, processing, before finally removing his fingers from the bridge of his nose. He opens his eyes and asks, almost tentatively, like he isn’t sure he even wants to ask, “And the hair fits into all of this where?”

Byleth blinks.

“The Goddess Sothis was living in my head.”

His father tips his face back into his hands, sounding that mix of scandalized and faint that has Byleth wondering if he and Seteth are somehow distant relatives, “Of course she is.”

“Was,” Byleth says, pulling himself back to composure, calming under the realization that, for whatever reason, his father _believes him_ , “She’s gone now.”

His father runs his hands down his face, peers at him from over his fingertips, “She’s... gone?”

“Our souls were merged.”

“And that… turned your hair green?”

“And gave me control over the flow of time.” Before, Byleth had needed to rely on Sothis using Divine Pulse for him- had needed to get her permission to use it out of battle. Permission she usually denied. After, he was free to use it whenever he wanted, however he saw fit.

“ _Of course it did_.” His father says breathlessly, probably in shock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  ~~I don't have anything funny to say cuz I'm feeling insecure rn, but plz comment~~  
> 


	4. The Choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one, but my PS5 and my copy of AC:Valhalla came in the mail today (setting itself up as we speak- er, type?) and I know myself well enough to know that I am going to be utterly absorbed in that for a bit, soooooo.... here's to keeping you guys company until I can claw my way out of this latest hyperfixation.
> 
> I edited this very quickly, so if there are mistakes... that is why.

All and all, Byleth’s father takes the information… well. He remains mostly straight-faced through Byleth’s recounting, enough so that Byleth feels comfortable falling into his usual prompt, to-the-point manner of speaking, no longer dancing around phrasing for fear of causing discomfort. Occasionally, Byleth will need to pause or repeat himself, his father getting this far-off look of distant amazement, but it never seems to be because of the subject matter itself. If anything, he seems to be… almost _marveling_ at Byleth.

At one point, he asks offhandedly when Byleth got so loquacious, to which Byleth looks at him dryly until he seems to realize—right, being thrown into a professorship and made head of a religious organization will do that to a person. Clipped, vague statements were all well and good when Byleth was off-the-clock, but insofar as teaching or strategizing was concerned, he’d quickly learned that elaborating from the get-go was better for everybody in the long term.

(If he’d wandered through the first half of his life assuming his father was able to telepathically interpret his blank stares and low hums, well… he knew better, now.)

The talks don’t go on for very much longer, after the rough timeline is covered. They agree that it’s best for both of them to call it, for now, and come back together after dark to talk more of what their exact plans will be. Until then, his father needs to re-acquaint himself with the goings-on of the knights in his absence and start going over patrol routes and other such details, and Byleth needs to move into his personal quarters.

Well, move _back_ in.

—Not that there’s actually much moving in to be done, not really. Byleth’s material possessions as a mercenary were few and far between, usually limited to the clothes on his back and whatever weapon he was currently holding.

Really, all Byleth does is drop his sword at the door, pull the hunting knife from his belt, and get started on carving Silence runes into the various support beams and posts boxing in the room—nothing that will hold 24/7, mind, but it will make casting the spell easier and less energy consuming than it might otherwise—careful to hide them in the shadows or the lesser exposed portions of the wood.

Once he’s finished with that, Byleth sits down with a fresh notebook plucked from his desk (pre-stocked, like last time, with all the stationery and calligraphy materials he might need) to record his own more detailed account of the timeline and their known enemies, all carefully coded in the same cipher he and his inner circle had used to communicate during the war that Byleth has long since committed to memory, no key needed.

Admittedly, it’s not much more detailed than the run-down Byleth had given his father, but it’s a start and it seems like the thing to do.

Once he’s done with that, he goes back through the notebook with a red-inked grading pen, filling the sizable gaps he’d left between events with notes and ideas—spitballing, mostly—until his brain is a jumble of letters and he needs to push the notebook away, lest he forget how to write uncoded text altogether.

Shortly thereafter, as Byleth is staring at the wall trying to reconstruct his scrambled thoughts, there’s a knock at his door. It’s one of his father’s lieutenants, telling Byleth that his father likely won’t be able to visit him tonight after all, overtaken by the mess of paperwork left undone by the man still _technically_ holding the position of Captain of the Knights of Seiros.

Byleth nods, not pleased but understanding.

It would probably be suspicious, anyways, Byleth and his father sequestering themselves behind closed doors multiple times for such long stretches so soon after arriving.

 _It’s almost like we’re up to something_ , Byleth thinks to himself wryly as he sends the lieutenant away.

The rest of Byleth’s night is spent getting started on as-a-whole lesson plans and more individualized ones, catering neatly to specific students—or, at least, it was _going to be_.

Byleth makes it halfway through the Deer’s lesson plans—a whole lot of ‘ _on track already’_ and ‘ _further focus on already developed skills’_ —before it hits him, suddenly.

Do they even _need_ him?

From day one, the Golden Deer had been more akin to a family than a class of teenagers. They had their spats, as all family did, but at the end of the day—no matter what Hilda might say about leaving them to die, or how much Lorenz would gripe about Claude being a terrible leader—they would go to the ends of the earth for one another.

The Black Eagles… Byleth’s not touching that mess with a ten foot pole, though given how many of them later excommunicated to the deer—all of them, save Hubert, Ferdinand, and Dorothea—he can only assume such wasn’t the case.

Then… there are the Blue Lions. Byleth isn’t quite sure what they are, exactly. They’d seemed friendly, at a glance, but—Byleth’s mind goes to Dimitri; isolated in his anger and alone in his pain—clearly, they hadn’t been close enough.

The reality is…

Byleth would love nothing more than to teach his fawns again, but the more he thinks on the matter, the clearer it becomes that perhaps such a thing isn’t the wisest course of action.

Claude, Byleth thinks, will be alright no matter what. He has a good head on his shoulders and knows well enough the struggle of both the common folk and the nobility to not do anything drastic, and he’s charismatic enough that accumulating allies won’t be difficult, even without the title of Duke Riegan. Edelgard, on the other hand, rather resembles a child with a hammer who sees only nails, while Dimitri is a bomb waiting to go off if left unchecked.

 _Hypothetically_ , if Byleth could get a whisper in Edelgard’s ear soon enough, he might try to avert disaster that way, but the girl is unyieldingly stubborn. Trying to reason with her, Byleth has found, seems to be about as productive as trying to talk a locked door into opening- not to mention, it’s very likely _already_ too late. Everything Byleth knows has suggested a great deal of pre-planning on Edelgard’s part; it’s almost certain that she’s been quietly arranging her pieces for years at this point. No matter how Byleth might endear himself to the young princess, he isn’t so confident as to think that he’d be able to get her to abandon what very well seems like half a lifetime of scheming so quickly.

Dimitri, of the two, is the more approachable option.

Byleth thinks of how he’d been, after his father had been killed. About the anger that had remained after the anguish had passed. Rage slamming against the walls of his chest like a caged animal, ready and rearing to be set free. He thinks of what might have become of him, had Claude and Marianne and all the rest of them not been there to pick him up and dust him off and ground him. To fill the cracks in his heart with their warmth, to talk him down whenever he began to act drastically.

It would have been rather easy, Byleth thinks, for him to have ended up like Dimitri had.

Feral and all but foaming at the mouth, made selfish by his thirst for vengeance.

Where Edelgard would be a dangerous gamble, Dimitri, Byleth thinks, could still be salvaged. A guiding hand here, a nice gesture there—enough love and compassion and understanding and, Byleth thinks, he could do good things. _Be_ good things. A _good man_.

(Part of Byleth thinks he might have already made this decision hours ago, as he’d stood before the prince in the clearing, looking at him as he was but remembering him as he would be. Broken and hurting and so utterly alone in his grief that he’d nothing left but violence and hate to keep him warm.)

Byleth closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and reaches forward, closing the manilla folder he’d been organizing the Deer’s lesson plans in and pushing it aside. Then, resigning himself to a much more uncertain future, Byleth fetches his pen from the inkwell, pulls a fresh folder out from his desk, and writes, in crisp, clean letters.

_Blue Lion Lesson Plans_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roy's Hot Take on early game inter-house relationships:
> 
> The Golden Deer: dysfunctional family crashing their rich estranged aunt's formal event for funzies  
> The Black Eagles: jaded coworkers being forced to spend time together out of work  
> The Blue Lions: *can't hear each other over the sounds of their sad backstories and absentee parents*


	5. The Interim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why I'm incapable of proofreading and/or posting when I'm anything but falling asleep at my computer, so I'm sorry in advance for any errors. Words stopped making sense to me about twenty minutes ago, I'm so tired, but I wanted to get this out because if not now, I don't know when. Anyways, enjoy about a thousand words of Byleth psychoanalyzing his soon-to-be students (but mostly Felix and Sylvain) and micromanaging things, and another thousand words of Jeralt being a concerned father, I guess. It's more filler than anything, but I wanted something to smack between the last chapter and Byleth's first day of class and this seemed the thing to do.
> 
> Enjoy!

> **_Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd_ **
> 
> _Relies too much on brute strength. Focus on precision movements rather than broad sweeps, as well as being able to tell when one or the other should be used. (Perhaps run some indoor combat trials? See how long it takes him to realize swinging his lance as he’s wont to do in a narrow hallway won’t get him far.)_
> 
> _Would benefit greatly from some classical fencing lessons with a rapier._
> 
> **_Dedue Molinaro_ **
> 
> _Often preoccupied with his allies’ safety, specifically where Dimitri is involved. Not necessarily a bad thing, but he hasn’t yet developed the blocking power to be able to back-up such protective inclinations._
> 
> _Additional hand-to-hand experience and shield practice with a focus on footwork and proper blocking stance needed. Speak with Golden Deer professor about joint training with Hilda._
> 
> **_Felix Hugo Fraldarius_ **
> 
> _Stiff behind his blade; movements are snappy where they should flow. Focuses too heavily on the offensive without considering the benefit of letting an enemy come to him. Learns best from hands-on training, with little patience for book learning._
> 
> _Latent Reason abilities—enlist Annette (preferably; more patience) or Lysithea (alternatively; attitudes might collide in a learning environment) to start him on the basics before moving to practical combat applications and field-learning for the rest. Disposition and obsession with swordplay makes him ill-suited to being a primary magic unit, but a secondary focus in Reason will give range to an otherwise close-quarters combatant._
> 
> _Has potential to lead well if he can get over his stubborn insistence on fighting alone and learn how to cooperate in group settings (rift likely caused by a perceived superiority over his peers—a balancing act, I suspect, between general haughtiness and a pathological fear of growing attatched to others; he seems to think that by distancing himself via condescension and condemnation, it will protect him from the pain of what he feels is their inevitable death, abandonment, or inevitable betrayal—must learn the value of others and understand that having flaws is not inherently bad). Group with Ingrid, Sylvain, Dimitri, Ashe, and Annette for additional tactics lessons and battalion maneuvers and encourage non-academic conversation whenever possible._
> 
> _Would benefit greatly from additional guidance from Seteth._
> 
> **_Sylvain Jose Gautier_ **
> 
> _Like Dedue, is often preoccupied with his allies’ positioning in battle. Must either learn to trust in their ability to keep themselves safe so as to not be so distracted or learn how to remain aware of them in battle without fully committing his attention to them._
> 
> _~~Much smarter than he~~_ _Incredibly gifted lancer, particularly when mounted. Has the potential to be a formidable magical unit with both offensive and supportive capabilities. Start Reason and Faith training as soon as possible—initial lessons from myself, Annette and Mercedes only. Once he’s learned the basics, move immediately to acclimatizing him to casting while mounted._
> 
> _Needs a female friend other than Ingrid (assertive nature and childhood-spanning relationship likens her more to a maternal figure, whom he regards more as an authority than an equal); see about arranging for weekly tea times with Mercedes and Bernadetta. ~~Perhaps a book club could be arranged?~~_
> 
> _Might also benefit from Seteth’s guidance, so long as it is provided under the correct pretense with minimal judgment and/or nagging._
> 
> **_Ingrid Galatea_ **
> 
> _Fighting style is too clean; daily combat drills with a focus on underhanded maneuvers. (Perhaps a few joint-training sessions with Claude?) Prone to getting tunnel-vision during aerial combat, specifically when it comes to targeting grounded foes; needs to be made more aware of her surroundings when engaging a target. Would benefit greatly from having another ally in the sky to watch her back, in the meanwhile._
> 
> _Pair with Dedue for chores whenever appropriate—preferably for something innocuous such as cooking duty or greenhouse shifts._
> 
> **_Ashe Ubert_ **
> 
> _Prone to combat nervousness and second-guessing his attacks. Work on confidence. Keen shot with a bow, but is accustomed to using it for hunting more than for combat; needs to learn how to nock, aim, and loose arrows more quickly, in a more high-stakes environment. Start on riding right away—perhaps put together an obstacle course outfitted with targets for him to run through while mounted? (Speak with Leoni and Petra regarding the specifics)_
> 
> _Lancework is solid, in theory, but he’s too used to fighting against other lance users in practice spars to be ready for the variety of weapon-types he’ll be exposed to in the field. Pair off with Dedue, Felix, and Annette for sparring—he’s light on his feet with excellent instinctual reflexes (if he could only learn to trust them), so it shouldn’t take him too long to adjust._
> 
> **_Mercedes von Martritz_ **
> 
> _Incredibly gifted Faith user, but prone to leaving herself open to attack. Perhaps look into a flight certification? Would remove her from central action while increasing her mobility for a greater maximum support radius and a better overall view of the battlefield. Would act primarily as a magical support unit but it would be smart for her to have a melee weapon on-hand should she need it—a lance would be the most practical, giving her the reach needed to extend beyond her mount’s wingspan with relatively little practice. Only difficulty will be managing to control the movement of such a weapon one-handed with her current level of musculature. Javelins, perhaps?_
> 
> _Joint training with Ingrid and Dimitri._
> 
> **_Annette Dominic_ **
> 
> _A veritable Reason prodigy. Smart and tactically cunning but often panics—forgetting strategy altogether when faced with melee fighters—and is prone to tripping over uneven terrain during prolonged altercations. In theory would benefit from an aerial mount to remove the threat of her clumsiness, but likely it will take some time before she has the balance and thigh/core strength to pull off such a thing, if she is ever able to manage it at all. (Flight drills with Ingrid and Mercedes?)_
> 
> _In the meantime, focus on hand-to-hand and axe combat to get her comfortable with close quarters fighting. Joint training with Felix, Dedue, and myself._

Jeralt huffs quietly to himself, setting the loose stack of papers aside as he regards his son’s sleeping form, slumped over at his desk.

If there had been any doubts as to whether Byleth was telling the truth or not (or, at the very least, what he vehemently believed to be the truth), they’d been alleviated the longer the two had spent talking. Some things were fuzzy, yes, but for the most part his son had been able to recount events with a startling level of clarity—this… _dossier_ on the students only further proves that.

(Nevermind that Jeralt is still struggling to wrap his head around it all—Byleth had been one step from a full-blown breakdown in his office when he’d thought Jeralt wasn’t going to believe him earlier. Jeralt needs to suck it up and get with the program; real or fake, the kid shouldn’t have to be dealing with all this shit by himself.)

“By,” Jeralt grumbles, reaching out to lay a hand on his son’s shoulder.

The response is immediate—every muscle in the kid’s back tenses, splayed fingers twitching from lax to stiff in less than a second. His breath comes out harsh, at least until his snapped-open eyes flick up to find Jeralt looming over him. He relaxes, then, an expression of unspeakable relief washing over his usually face.

“Father…” He breathes as he pushes himself up from the desk, the emotions he’d shown gone just as promptly as they’d appeared. Beneath him, unorganized papers speak everything from sketched-out lesson plans for the class as a whole—

> **_ Monday: _ **
> 
> _A Period:_ _Weapon & Armor Upkeep*_
> 
> _B Period:_ _Basic Battlefield Tactics & Battalion Management _
> 
> _[Snack & Social Break]_
> 
> _C Period:_ _Per-Student Classroom Focus_
> 
> _D Period:_ _Combat Medicine_
> 
> _E Period:_ _Basic Faith Magic_
> 
> _[Daily Chores & Afternoon Break; Reconvene at Training Grounds]_
> 
> _F Period:_ _Per-Student Training Focus_
> 
> _G Period:_ _Per-Student Training Focus_
> 
> _*performing, not teaching_

To more individualized lesson plans—

> **_ Dimitri / Monday: _ **
> 
> _C Period:_ _Advanced Strategy w/ Felix, Sylvain, Ingrid, Annette, & Ashe_
> 
> _[Stable Duty w/ Sylvain & Ashe]_
> 
> _F Period:_ _Lancing Drills w/ Ingrid, Ashe, Sylvain & Mercedes_
> 
> _G Period:_ _Fencing Drills w/ Felix_

—and _shit_. For a moment, Jeralt just stares, silently proud and simultaneously, inexplicably _saddened_ \- because his kid really had thought of everything, hadn’t he?

(It just drills home that much more how _real_ all of this is. Just how many years of his son’s life he’d missed. How much he’s had to weather alone what Jeralt had sworn to himself he’d always be there for.)

Jeralt’s straying eyes catch on the folder beneath Byleth’s forearm- or, more aptly, the label scrawled on it in a near foreign hand—so much neater than it had ever been during their days as a mercenary, “What happened to the Deer?” Jeralt asks, frowning down at the bit of parchment.

Byleth sighs, sitting up and palming at his neck as he rolls his head, chasing away the stiffness that falling asleep in such a position would bring, “Our downfall was our numbers.” He says, matter-o-fact but so utterly _tired_ \- in a way that Jeralt thinks has very little to do with his actual energy levels.

“Nemesis outnumbered us, hundreds to one—probably more.” He looks down at his plans, “Claude and the rest, I know, will flourish even without my guidance, but… If I can keep the Lions together, keep _Dimitri_ together, and secure us the loyalty of The Kingdom and its forces _from_ _the_ _beginning_ …”

Jeralt crosses his arms, frowning, “We’d be the one to outnumber them.”

Byleth nods, sighing, “The Alliance being split in its loyalties had us operating with half of an army from the very beginning. Then there were the casualties of our campaigns—minimum, but felt—and those lost at Gronder Field. In the end, it didn’t even matter that most of the Kingdom forces ended up defecting to our ranks after Dimitri fell- the aftermath of Fort Merceus cleaved our forces to a third of what we’d had going into the fight. Nevermind that our casualties during the march on Enbarr were minimal, no matter the outcome, so far as we were concerned the war was supposed to end that day—have you any idea the amount of _supplies_ we burned through? The march on Shambhala took such a deep gouge out of our rations that two days into the battle on the Plateau, we were pulling back contingencies of troops to _go hunting_.”

Byleth shakes his head, pushing away from his desk and standing, “If we can have Faerghus with us from the beginning… even if we can’t prevent the Dukedom, the death of every Kingdom and Alliance soldier at Gronder that had occurred at the hands of the other can be prevented and pushed unto the enemy instead.” He moves, collecting his papers into a neat stack and carefully tucking them away into the cream-colored folder, “It’s a big risk, changing something so big so early, but… I’d rather take this risk than go into that fight again with nothing.”

“Hey,” Jeralt says, stepping forward to lay a hand on his son’s forearm, “Whatever you think is best, kid, I’m behind you.” Goddess knows he’s got a better head on his shoulders than Jeralt ever had when he was his age.

“…of course,” Byleth says, glancing up at him quickly before moving to tuck his documents into the top drawer of his desk, “What time is it?”

Jeralt sighs, shifting back, “A little after one- thought I’d stop by and see if you weren’t still up.” It hadn’t taken as long as he’d been expecting to go through the Knight Captain’s things, but it had still taken quite a while, “It’s too late now to be talking, though, and you’ve got classes in the morning.” He just wanted to make sure the kid got to a proper mattress. He’s too damn young to be breaking his back sleeping hunched over a desk.

“Mhn,” Byleth hums, bending to ease open the bottom drawer of his desk and retrieve another folder buried beneath a stack stationery—this one unmarked. He offers it to Jeralt, “These are profiles on all our known adversaries. Commit them to memory then get rid of them. If you forget anything, I’ve got my own copies, but they’re encrypted and I’d rather not give form to the key if I don’t need to.”

“Understandable,” Jeralt tells him mildly as he tucks the folder into the folds of his coat. He’ll look through them first thing once he’s back in his rooms and burn them soon as he’s done—the less time such knowledge spends out in the open, the better.

Byleth walks him to the door, and there’s a moment then where they just sort of stare at each other. Jeralt pondering his son- this new, different version of him that overtook the old one entirely overnight, and Byleth… well, Byleth could be thinking just about anything—if the last few hours have taught Jeralt anything, it’s just how little he actually knows about the kid.

The thought prompts Jeralt to sigh, raise a hand to rub at his jaw as he reaches for the door handle with the other.

Byleth’s palm on his forearm slows the action, pulling Jeralt’s attention back to his son, who in turn looks back at him, eyes fixed on his chest, though, rather than his face.

Jeralt frowns, opens his mouth to ask, but then Byleth is ever-so-slowly stepping into his space and wrapping his arms around his middle in a tight, solid embrace. He sucks in a breath to hold against Jeralt’s chest, eyes squeezing shut as his fingers close over Jeralt’s shoulder blades. Every line of his body is tense, every muscle contracted, like this is isn’t something he thinks is allowed, and- and that’s just-

Jeralt pulls his hand back from the door handle, closes his arms around Byleth’s shoulders and neck, pulling the kid closer against him. Byleth melts into the touch, sagging against his chest with a heavy sigh, his grip going slack.

“I missed you.”

Jeralt pushes out a heavy breath as he lifts a hand, cupping Byleth’s head at the point where it meets his neck and dipping his chin to press his lips into his crown.

“I know. I gotcha, kid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I headcanon Byleth as a very tactile/materially affectionate (???) person because he doesn't know how to express his emotions outwardly so touch and excessive gifting is all he's got to show his loved ones he cares? Yes, yes I do.
> 
> Was this fic originally born out of an unposted 5+1 fic detailing how a NG+ Byleth would be super touchy-feeling as a way to remind himself that all of his students (& Jeralt) are (/is) okay because chances are he's seen them all die in dozens upon dozens of horrible ways in a previous life? Yes, yes it was.
> 
> Am I sad now? Yes, yes I am.


End file.
